Every year I hope this day gets easier, and again I find myself staring at this page, feeling like I'm ripping at the seams, pulled taut between two realities.
In one reality, the years are getting easier. I'm seeing myself, others, and the world around me more clearly, solidifying what matters to me in life, recognizing destructive patterns faster, and discovering parts of myself for the first time, which is an experience I'm starting to recognize as growth.
But in another, I can't celebrate the pattern recognition; I only see myself repeating the patterns I should have learned to avoid many times over. I can't celebrate the self-discovery; I only see myself meandering, getting lost in all the trails that make up the labyrinth of my own mind and history without knowing which trails are dead ends, and without knowing exactly how to retrace my steps. Most recently, I see myself sinking backwards, into a darkness I had hoped to have conquered by now. It's matured, just like I have I suppose, but I still recognize it from all the years it has shown up throughout my life, uninvited and unrelenting.
But as I re-read my first birthday post, I am reminded (even when it brings little comfort) that healing is not linear, and as I re-read last year's post, I am reminded (even when I'm riddled with skepticism) that hope comes in unlikely places. This year, if I'm being honest, I'm not sure what the blog will bring—for me or anyone else. But I'll try to remain open to the unlikely.
I have to intentionally avoid crossing out everything I wrote last year because a lot of it feels like it was built on lies in hindsight. I've worked hard to uncover and protect the core belief that none of life is a waste—none of it. I do believe that, despite the monsters in my head that rail against it. I'm just in a space and time where the conflict is raging. When I read that post, I see a naïve person who believed so earnestly in the growth she experienced, and while some was legitimate, a lot of it was poisoned from the start. The disappointment and humiliation that come with that are hard to shake, even in my best moments. But I don't know, maybe the learnings still have value—even the ones I question—and maybe I was meant to read them a year later with different eyes, and maybe next year, with different eyes again.
"Sometimes faith feels more like cataracts than clarity." - Levi the Poet
Maybe that's the point of all of it. That words age, just like we do, and they weren't any less true to themselves when they were younger than they are today.
Still, I’ve recently started to fear that these posts come across as pious, and maybe that’s because I’m in a swell of shame that tells me to be quiet and disappear. It could be because right now, I'm standing in the wreckage of the year I've had, weary, isolated, and frankly, quite beat down. I feel like a shell of myself most days, and even though I know the season will pass, this year, I don't feel like the words on this page are a snapshot of my growth at all. But perhaps I've put too much pressure on that being my goal.
Maybe that's the point of all of it. That words age, just like we do, and they weren't any less true to themselves when they were younger than they are today.
When I can be honest and kind to myself, my fragility reminds me that these blogs are a regimen, not a joy or an indulgence. They aren't a mark of piety or knowingness that I'm either projecting or failing to live up to, but a mark of painful humility and lowliness I'm facing in spite of my fear.
At the end of it all, I cannot control how others perceive me or my words. The words do their work on me every year, and whether anyone else sees them or gets anything out of them is wholly the result of a cosmic transformation that is out of my hands. Regardless of how they come across, these blogs are a way of holding myself accountable to the commitment I made to keep going, when I often want to quit. They are the sunlight that disinfects my shame, and while they aren't necessarily a testament to my strength, they are a testament to my fight.
This year, though my words feel sloppy, my heart feels shattered, and my faith feels bruised, I know somewhere in it all that the beauty comes in showing up. And in the mess, I'm reminded of something Joan Didion once said:
"I'm not telling you to make the world better, because I don't think that progress is necessarily part of the package. I'm just telling you to live in it. Not just to endure it, not just to suffer it, not just to pass through it, but to live in it. To look at it. To try to get the picture. To live recklessly. To take chances. To make your own work and take pride in it. To seize the moment."
I don't know if Joan said this with any amount of theological weight, but it carries quite a bit for me. Not to be a nihilist—or an escapist, as one wise and gifted professor once warned me about in myself—but perhaps a life as any kind of believer also calls us to surrender our claim to making the world better if we hope to experience the fullness of that belief.
Should we do good in it? Of course. Should we care for people in a way that leaves their life with more light than darkness? Absolutely. Should we take every opportunity to point our work and worth back to the pursuit of the Truth? Resoundingly, yes.
But more than that, should we anguish deeply over the evil we cannot expel in our own power? Should we correct our trajectory daily, and recognize often that our mechanisms are flawed? Should we celebrate a world and a fate in which we, as humans, do not have ultimate control? Should we humble ourselves and live fully as if we are the receivers of, rather than the givers of the gift of life? Should we remind ourselves that to love one another is the beginning and end of our job as humans, not judgment or condemnation? Should we believe with everything in us that our work and our efforts to "be the change" are only as good as the change that is possible because of the force that gave us hearts that care in the first place?
Yes. That is freeing, if you ask me, and that kind of freedom exists both in the stillness of the present and in the motion between where we were and where we're going.
Perhaps a life as any kind of believer also calls us to surrender our claim to making the world better if we hope to experience the fullness of that belief.
So as I write this one, that's where I aim to be. My goal is simply to keep learning. Keep living. Keep using my voice. Keep showing up. Keep forgiving. Will it make the world a better place? God only knows. But I will do it because my soul is better for it. It keeps me soft to the harshness. It keeps me flexible in the storms. It keeps me compassionate and grounded. And it keeps me open to the good.
With that, here's to another year of struggling—and here's to struggling well.
In the spirit of struggling, I think it's fair to say that I've struggled with the order of this blog more than usual this year. The past 365 days (and counting) have largely been consumed by the dark, ambiguous journey through an unhealthy situation and back to myself. The heart of my struggle is that when I sift through the year's greatest takeaways, a good majority of them come from a very dark place, which happens to be tangled up in various relationships, and it's easy to simply volley the responsibility over to the other parties, or villainize them. Because I want to minimize that as much as I can, knowing that we're all people and we all have our own version of the story, there's tremendous (self-imposed) pressure to get the order and delivery right.
With that, as much as I wish there were an easier way to embed these particular learnings into a larger, more hopeful landscape of the year, I believe the best and only way out is through, so I'll be starting there, with the difficult side of 31...
This year, more than any other, has taught me that it is humbling to end up in a situation you never thought you would find yourself in. Humbling in many senses of the word…one being a sense of relief and gratitude to look back and realize how lucky you are to have put space between you and the darkness. In another sense, it is the humiliation of facing the deep need to forgive yourself for acting out of your heart and pushing down your gut in a moment (or moments) when you simply needed to believe in hope or something good. When you take a risk and it doesn't pay off, that’s not something to live in shame about. And it’s not something to hide from those who truly love you.
Much easier said than done when your reality is distorted so deeply and your judgment is clouded over time. The shame rolls in like that dark cloud in James and the Giant Peach and most of the time, I feel lucky to see ten feet in front of me.
In the clearer moments, 31 taught me that it is self-abandoning to lowering your value just because someone can’t pay full price. If I could tell my past self one thing, it would likely be, "Don’t accept credit for your worth."
When you take a risk and it doesn't pay off, that’s not something to live in shame about. And it’s not something to hide from those who truly love you.
31 taught me that conflict style is important to me. That comes from the home I grew up in and how I hope to conduct myself moving forward. I believe it's important to have the freedom to feel things and express yourself, but if your need for expression creates fear or an unsafe environment for others around you, it's not okay. It also taught me that to ask someone you care about for a new way of navigating conflict in an effort to establish a shared sense of safety is not a threat to who they are, and it's not too much to ask.
31 taught me that you can’t assume everyone is collaborative; some just want control (of you or the narrative); some want something different all together. I also know, logically, that at the end of the day it's all just data that should inform the company we keep, but it becomes deeply personal, hurtful, and sometimes inescapable when it's internalized. I'm learning more and more that I really struggle to see outside of my own motivations and goals within a relationship—or even within a conversation. Coming to terms with others' goals, particularly when they are different than what I thought were shared goals, is tremendously difficult to do. That blind spot has cost me a lot, which is why I know it's worth working on—for the sake of my time, heart, and energy, and for the sake of how I show up for others.
31 taught me that when you meet a true equal (in whatever sense), the power stance you may have held in the past goes away and you have to face a lot more of your own issues. That's highly uncomfortable, and if you're like me, it'll bring out the not-so-endearing stubbornness in you. But it also taught me that this must be tested with time, because it's easy to mistake a person's desire or claim to be something with their ability or willingness to be it. I believe we all can rise to meet each other in the ways that matter. It just comes down to choices, and willingness to face and do what is necessary in order to make it happen.
With that, I’ve learned this year that despite being a lover of words, when it comes to people, behavior is the only language that should hold any weight in my decisions about how I show up.
31 showed me that if someone is wants you to “put it to rest” or remain in any state of emotional permanence when "it" is still active and alive in your soul, mind, or body, they aren’t concerned for you. They’re ready to relieve themself of the guilt or responsibility of actually dealing with it. Pay attention to who truly cares for your heart and who wants you to believe you’re just malfunctioning.
I believe we all can rise to meet each other in the ways that matter. It just comes down to choices, and willingness to face and do what is necessary in order to make it happen.
31 taught me that my body doesn't lie, and when she begins to break down, she's desperate to be heard. I'm also learning that her voice is the often the wisest. The pressure we put on ourselves to ignore or be ashamed of our bodies keeps us from hearing their wisdom, which can be live-saving. And I, for one, need to be better at honoring that wisdom.
31 taught me that sometimes, we may exist as nothing more than a role in someone’s narrative. And as horrendously dehumanizing as that is, finding the self-respect and courage to be misunderstood is the greatest freedom we'll ever have. I will be the first to admit that I absolutely suck at being misunderstood when it means my character is in the balance. My sense of style? Music? Tattoos? Belief? Bite me. But if I begin to sense that my integrity, motivation, or values are misunderstood, that's my achilles heel.
I'm getting better at recognizing when I have to let go of that control, which is progress I suppose. However, I still have to remind myself that people will contort your character for an infinite number of reasons, but they can’t take away your vibrant light if you don’t give their narrative any weight. To say I’m still angry about being misunderstood in this seemingly endless season is a gross understatement. I also may wrestle with this idea my whole life. But somewhere deep in my truest soul, l know it’s worth the fight. "Nolite te bastardes carborundorum," right?
“Nolite te bastardes carborundorum"
31 taught me that a diagnosis or reason for the hurt you're experiencing will not take it away and will not be the light the situation needs. If someone is hurting you, they either have to face their choices head on, from an intrinsic place of desire, or you need to leave. Those are the only options that leave you intact. Anything else will devour you.
With that, 31 taught me that we may always be the villain to people who either refuse to own the truth about how they’ve wronged us, or can't show up for us in the ways we need them to. But it’s not about us. We all are, unfortunately, collateral damage from time to time, and processing that grief is better than allowing ourselves to believe we are damaged goods. I know I'm not exempt from this either. I hope this learning keeps me open to seeing and owning the ways I, too, have wronged others.
31 confirmed that in certain areas of life or relationships, I can no longer make myself available for potential or “almost.” While no one is perfect or “done” doing the work, there are baseline circumstances I will not compromise on anymore. A person's generosity and patience are not unlimited resources—and to accept them while in a perpetual state of "almost there” or "just this last time" is more than unfair, it’s cruel. It makes their generosity a hostage to your circumstances and consequences, which means they don’t get to freely give it, and therefore, it becomes a weight on their soul and an obligation they never should have had to take on.
I also learned that my role in this dynamic is just as significant and unacceptable. It doesn't make me a martyr or the "favorable" party when I happen to be the generous or patient one. It just makes me an enabler; a complicit bystander; the one who allows resentment to grow and poison the well. That is, in fact, not generous, and it's not who I want to be either...
31 taught me that I can look back at the moments and the people I've loved most deeply and feel grateful, while also holding the profound pain of the fallout. It also taught me that when I think about how I want to feel in the right relationship, my memory goes back to my very first boyfriend. There’s a chance he could read this. If so, thank you. And I’m sorry.
Looking back, sometimes I think I’ve gone through every kind of wrong love. But this past year taught me that it doesn’t necessarily mean that I’m always making the same mistakes. It means, like everyone, I needed the experiences I had to get where I am, become who I should be, and learn how to offer my heart with wisdom, which must be learned. Some get the privilege of learning that wisdom alongside their person, and others, like me, must learn it alone. In certain moments that remind me of the sorrow and anger I still have deep in my bones, I’m tempted to berate myself for stupidly opening myself up...again...but when I can, I choose to let the pain remind me that I was generous with my love, and that's beautiful, even though it had to end.
The truth about this year is that my circumstances—and in some cases, my choices within those circumstances—left me isolated. I've found myself in a season where I don't really have much of a community. Some of that is the phenomenon of being in your 30s in 2025. Some of it is, I'm sure, a tangled mess of misunderstandings, and some of it is a mystery I may never understand. I don't really blame anyone for it. It's just where I've found myself.
As a society, we don’t talk enough about how hard it is to heal without community. Oxytocin is the state in which women in particular feel safe enough to heal. And that comes from physical touch, time with friends, laughter, and a general sense of positive connection. When we don’t have those things, it makes healing a thousand time harder.
In that process, 31 has taught me that I may never be the favorite or the lifelong friend. That sounds incredibly self-deprecating, I realize, but it’s just meant to be an observation. My experience time and time again has been that I'm invited into a season or two—until life changes. Some have told me not to think of this as a result of who I am, but in all seriousness, I don't know how else to think about it. To deny my experience is to dishonor the ache of it, as well as the process that leads to a healthier acceptance of the truth. Ultimately, I don't want to be included out of pity, or to be chosen out of anything other than enthusiasm and confidence, without question and without hesitation. I've just had to shift my perspective on friendship and self-worth, and that's really okay. I'd rather shift my perspective and learn how to live differently so that I can live fully in the reality. I will say, as I wrestled with this one over the last 365 days, I also learned that just because I'm not the favorite friend, it doesn't mean I'm not a good one.
That's the beauty of acceptance right there...on the other side of the grief, you start to see the whole picture and the rough edges that cut you before start to wear down into something you can handle, even handle with grace.
With that, 31 taught me that there's a cost to being a truth-seeker. Everyone has to decide for themselves when they're ready to face the truth of their lives and the impact of their choices, and I've found that choosing the truth makes me a disturber to those whose goals are "easy" and "comfortable." I won't pretend I make all the right choices along the way, but I do like to think the truth is a priority of mine, and I can live with the consequences of that—be it loneliness, overthinking, or the insatiable (sometimes prideful) need to understand.
And because I stubbornly insist on understanding as a way to avoid feeling, 31 has found it appropriate to remind me that no amount of understanding your situation or the 'why' behind your loneliness will make it any less excruciating.
That's the beauty of acceptance right there...on the other side of the grief, you start to see the whole picture and the rough edges that cut you before start to wear down into something you can handle, even handle with grace.
31 taught me that sharing what's happened to you with people you trust doesn’t necessarily mean they'll understand it, or know how to care for you in it. And sometimes, you may have to fight the regret of sharing that creeps in when you start to feel misunderstood or mishandled. I haven't navigated my own pain perfectly, admittedly, and certainly haven't been very inviting of others in it. There's a lot of history behind that tendency, which is 100% mine to own. Despite that, I do try to work on it because like anyone, I wish to be cared for and worried about without having to take the lead sometimes. There’s absolutely a level of responsibility on all of us to bring what we need and what we’re going through to the table. I’m not denying that—people aren’t mind readers. And also…even private people need someone to actively show concern for them, out loud, not just wait for them to clean themselves up enough to ask. Because sometimes, we don't have any more strength to ask for an ear or a shoulder. As a private person, if I heal alone, chances are I'll learn to do the next chapter alone, too. And while we create this dynamic for ourselves in many cases, it still sucks when it feels like we can’t change that perception.
31 taught me that despite my cynicism, there are people who are willing to face the truth in its full depth and immensity. It taught me that those communities are special and rare, and that is perhaps why they aren't permanent or fixed in our lives. This year, I met some of the most human, exquisite, and generous souls in a setting that is meant to be a flash in the night. I spent 4 days with people who saw me more clearly than most ever have, and then just as quickly as we met, we had to say goodbye. My heart aches to think about those 4 days. I miss them. And I am afraid I will not experience it again. But 31 taught me that when time and space and people align that perfectly, it's not something that can survive in the context of daily life. We would crush it instantly if we tried. It keeps me both grounded and loosely holding onto the more profound experiences I've had.
Luckily, from that experience, I've been able to keep learning on my own. I've been able to break down and examine what safety feels like in relationships, based on my interactions there. I realized that I feel safe when there is attunement, consent, true compassion, and mutual vulnerability. We were moved to tears by one another in both sorrow and joy. We kept enough of our stories to ourselves that we weren’t codependent, but still deeply seen and supported by others. We regulated ourselves enough so we could truly see and hold one another—emotionally, spiritually, mentally, and even physically at times. It was truly beautiful, and seeing those people living their lives authentically from a distance makes me feel honored to have gotten a chance to see them in rare form, and to share a rare form of myself.
When time and space and people align that perfectly, it's not something that can survive in the context of daily life. We would crush it instantly if we tried.
That experience, and all of 31, taught me that while I’m good at experiencing, identifying, and holding space for emotions, I'm terrible at expressing them, likely because I’ve lacked safe spaces to do so. Most people would look at their parental relationships to understand this one, but for me, that's not the case. To my core, I believe my parents created the safest, softest, and most caring environment I could have imagined to thrive and flourish in my sensitivity and creativity. They advocated for me, encouraged my unique path, and fiercely aimed to know and honor who I was in every season. I cannot fathom a healthier relationship—it's easily the most precious thing in my life, and a touchstone of my gratitude.
Perhaps that's why it's taken so long to admit that I did experience unsafe spaces that were formative, even if they were outside of that relationship. The reality of my adolescence is that I perceived and adapted to my environment in the way I thought was best, without being asked. That means I rushed my own independence and perhaps it made my steps into adulthood less graceful than I'd like to admit. At a young age, I internalized things that created deep-rooted, false beliefs that would take a lifetime to identify, unbury, and replace. One of those beliefs is that expressing my emotions is unsafe.
The frustration of this realization makes me ask: When did I learn this? Or unlearn it? I used to be far more expressive...I imagine it was chipped away throughout the years. How does anyone grieve the injustice of it? I'm still working on that. How has it impacted me? In ways I can't even begin to unpack yet. All I know is that it touches everything—from relationships, to my career, to my art, to every decision I make—big or small. Even in knowing that, though, I'm intellectualizing what I should be feeling. Restoring that instinct to feel will be a lifelong endeavor, but again, well worth the effort and attention.
31 taught me (just like 30 did...and 29....) that black and white thinking is the first sign that I’m acting out of fear, rather than my true, free self.
31 taught me how to look my younger self in the eye with grace, rather than shame. IFS and parts work really showed me how impactful it is to speak to the parts of me that act out of fear like children. They come from a “young” place, and they need assurance not like an adult needs, but like a child needs. I don’t have children, but I was a teacher and deeply cared for many. Seeing my own parts as children seeking safety and love was groundbreaking for my personal growth.
Black and white thinking is the first sign that I’m acting out of fear, rather than my true, free self.
31 taught me that I can re-enter places of deep hurt and they don’t have to be mausoleums. Church is the most obvious example. It holds deep wounds for me, and likely always will. I used to physically shake the moment I walked in, and for hours after I left. After some years, I've come to realize that when I can walk through the door hand-in-hand with my hurt, places of worship can still hold value, so long as I keep a strong hold on what I’ve learned from their illness, and a strong hold on my own story and the stories of the people there, above and beyond the institution itself. I doubt I'll ever be a picturesque church-goer—I'm a mystic and a rebel at heart—and know for a fact I will never agree with everything that is said or done within church walls, but I'm relieved to exhale some of the poison I've been breathing in and just be for a while. To the musicians who have contributed my restored-yet-skeptical hope—knowingly or unknowingly—thank you.
31 taught me that I deeply appreciate rituals and practices outside of the typical church tradition that invite people to look inward, upward, and outward. There's something about connecting a physical practice with a spiritual posture that makes me exist more embodied and balanced.
31 continued to teach me that labeling myself based on the past keeps me from opening myself up to what the future has. This one feels disjointed, but stick with me. The culture we live in—with social media, dating apps, streaming music for pennies or for nothing, free porn, and AI, all that makes human beings so categorical and one-dimensional, and makes relationships so transactional—is the most toxic thing we're doing for ourselves and for future generations. Our society is caving in on itself because we are continually creating ways to serve ourselves. We see it show up in antisocial tendencies, personality disorders, political extremism…
We've removed the awkward nervousness and accountability of looking someone in the eye, actually hearing their soul when they talk, and responding authentically, thoughtfully, and compassionately. We've destroyed all of what it means to be human, so what we're left with is a society that wants to put labels on everything and everyone. But the labels actually do nothing to inform us of the truth, they just manage our perceptions and drive in our superficial assumptions. I, myself, start to believe the labels I've been given if I'm not careful, and want to choose every day to live in resistance to them for the sake of my humanity, and my ability to see the humanity in others.
“Let me tell you that the one sin I have come to fear more than any other is certainty. Certainty is the great enemy of unity. Certainty is the deadly enemy of tolerance. Even Christ was not certain at the end...Our faith is a living thing precisely because it walks hand in hand with doubt. If there was only certainty, and if there was no doubt, there would be no mystery, and therefore no need for faith.” - Robert Harris, Conclave
31 put to words what I think I've known for years: that when left unchecked, a competitive spirit kills more connection than it ever builds.
31 taught me that some things will always hit right at the center of your nerves. For me, it’s silly things like having to go through old tax documents, or loosening the hose bib for the winter, or moving a mattress by myself, or trying to get a box of Halloween decorations down from the shelf without falling off a ladder and breaking my neck. These things at face value shouldn’t send anyone over the moon with anger and a sense of injustice…but what can I say? They do. Because it's not about the documents or the mattress. It's about the reasons I am left cleaning up someone else's mess, especially the mess they left in my soul. It's about the insensitive way people exacerbate my sorrow, anger, or pain with ignorant comments about how I've had to learn to operate on my own, as if it were my first choice.
It also taught me that the goal of mental health and "the work" is not to find ways to escape or eliminate these discomforts, but to unlock the resilience needed to process them without losing yourself, or losing your shit. If my sense of stability and whether I'm doing okay is dependent on not experiencing anything that challenges me, I'm not actually doing okay—I'm just manipulating the truth or the people around me.
The labels actually do nothing to inform us of the truth, they just manage our perceptions and drive in our superficial assumptions. I, myself, start to believe the labels I've been given if I'm not careful, and want to choose every day to live in resistance to them for the sake of my humanity, and my ability to see the humanity in others.
31 taught me that getting older is a privilege, not a failure. I hope to keep this one close as the years add up.
31 reminded me that people will label you in direct proportion to their willingness to engage with the truth you put in front of them. 'Troublemaker' is a name I’ve grown to own—and find quite humorous—because most of the time, when people pull that one out (in seriousness) I know it's just easier for them to put me in a margin than to actually engage with a voice and a strength that challenges their own.
In the spirit of making more trouble, 31 also taught me that I need to say this, as ridiculous as it feels: a strong, independent woman isn’t after your ego. The very fact that she's independent means she doesn’t need to tear you down in order to recognize her worth, or yours. If this is a concern, maybe consider building your own worth on something more solid than a woman being "less" in any way. Because I promise, she'll always claw her way back to herself and burn your foundation to the ground.
31 taught me that ‘belovedness’ means I am inherently more than what I do, what I offer, or what I choose to share of myself.
31 taught me that some people will never know how to talk to you in a way that acknowledges who you are, who you’ve become, or the deep, violent, internal transformation that got you here. They’ll want to talk to you as you were. Or stay on the surface to not get lost in the complexities of your journey…those people deserve to stay on the outside of that journey. But I no longer feel obligated to live on the outskirts of it just for the sake of being known by them. I will live meaningfully in the journey, with my eyes and heart wide open, even if I walk it alone.
31 showed me just how lonely "strength" can be. I don't always see strength as an honorable quality anymore. Sometimes, it's just what's required of you to survive. It's quite annoying actually, when all you have left to stand on is something you didn't really have a choice in learning. But at the same time, when I see strength in others, I respect the hell out of them for whatever unspoken battle they've fought, so maybe I just need to chill out and be kinder to myself.
31 showed me that true compassion calls me to give up the comfort of remaining on the outside looking in. It also calls for me to stop wishing others would feel how badly they hurt me, and instead, hope for their heart to seek understanding, despite their own blockers. True compassion means I'm able to authentically say, “I hope you never feel what I felt.” Knowing this, I hope to check my own heart and ask, am I showing compassion or am I searching for my own sense of justice?
31 taught me that someone's limitations are not the poison—their complacency or stubbornness is. Mental health issues, trauma, fear, etc. are all legitimate, and if you ask most people, they are more than willing to be patient with someone while they work through them. What we shouldn't be willing to do is stand still and rot just so they don't have to make a move toward healing or growth. What we shouldn't be willing to do is exist as an emotional punching bag just because they decide it's "just how they are." As people, we are worth more than the repercussions of another's unwillingness.
31 taught me that there’s a vast difference between expression and transformation, but we often disguise the former as the latter.
31 taught me that tracking success by time is often just disappointing, and it doesn’t account for the successes people have made by cutting time short. Sticking with a job despite a toxic work environment, or staying in an unhealthy marriage, or sacrificing literal years and your life force to convince yourself an institution hasn't failed—it’s not noble or "successful," it's a trap for shame and it keeps you from what is truly meant for you.
I will live meaningfully in the journey, with my eyes and heart wide open, even if I walk it alone.
31 reminded me that the same words I use to write this soliloquy can be used to write poetry, and that I need to write both, but don’t have to force either…
For now, this is all I have to offer in reflection, and while I wish it were more poetry, it’s okay that it’s not.
Every year, as I come to the end and wrestle with my doubt about whether I should carry on this accidental tradition of mine, I'm reminded that I am far more likely to regret staying silent than using my voice. So here it is, in all its fallibility.
31 was brutal, and I'm ready to be rid of her. But even with all the trouble and heartache laid out in words, I find myself looking back with a slight nod and a smile, because these years aren't just failed attempts at re-doing what I screwed up last time or recovering what I lost in the past. Each year is a push deeper into my own soul. A push out of my own head and into a greater sense of knowing and surrender. Each year is a teacher that holds a philosophy not unlike the one I held in my own classroom: you may leave this term exhausted, frustrated, and with a bruised ego, but you absolutely will not be able to say you didn't learn.
Sláinte.
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